


Fast-Forward, Pause

by Crumbledown (VerbtheAdjectiveNoun)



Series: Rewind, Play [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Frottage, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Male Slash, Oral Sex, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerbtheAdjectiveNoun/pseuds/Crumbledown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Important moments cannot, should not be glossed over, but cherished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forward With Care

**Author's Note:**

> A mid-story prologue, of sorts. Explicit territory coming up after this.

It’s one thing to fantasize and fast-forward through logistics; it’s quite another to yearn for a fast-forward button through a very real, desperately needed conversation. Time has nothing to do with pushing through the un-pleasantries; time has nothing to do with what is said unless time is directly discussed.

“Why are you back _now_?”

“Why did you leave for so _long_?”

The risk of fast-forwarding through important dialogue can mean the difference between “I don’t want to see you _ever_ _again_ ,” or “I’ve _always_ loved you,” or “I _never_ gave up hope.”

The crux of the conversation isn’t about the when’s. People want to know the _why_ and the _how_ , and never want to discuss them. How could they be explained without blunder or misunderstandings? To fast-forward through the _why_ is monumentally stupid, because one will miss something crucial. Blurring through at top speed, faces and actions moving without care as to what is said or done can make all the difference between finding one shivering, out in the rain with nowhere to go, or two shivering between the sheets together, home for good.

 


	2. Pause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though it may be rather premature for nostalgia, Sherlock cannot help but reflect upon very current events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit content coming your way. John and Sherlock are not mine.

_Pause._

_Sherlock breaths deeply._

_This is what he wants to remember. The sweat cooling on his brow, his lips tingling, completely and utterly spent. Elated. Finally, finally, finally. He doesn’t ever want to forget this. Hours ago he was terrified, nervous, cold and wet. Confused and baffled. Relief came slowly, but he has not been truly relaxed in years. Even now, despite his current situation, there is still a thrum of anticipation and wonder and worry running along his spine, a warning that he may never be able to relax even now- especially now that he’s home._

_Sherlock rewinds to the beginning._

He waits with baited breath; John does none of the things he expected him to do. He ushers Sherlock in after a moment of shock and takes his coat. Now that everything they wanted to say to each other was said, Sherlock has the luxury of fast-forwarding through his memories. Hours of tension, angry words, laughter, and negotiation, done and dusted.

 _Fast-forward_.

Their conversation has gone pear-shaped; John shoves him, Sherlock brings him down with him. Their anger and John’s punches quickly lose heart. They roll off of each other to just lie on the floor and catch their breath. Neither is hurt beyond a few bruises. They speak a bit more this way- flat on their backs and watching each other in their peripheral vision. John asks if he’s okay.

_Fast-forward._

John lies on his side, head resting on his arm as he watches Sherlock gesture wildly as he tells a story to the ceiling, basking in the warmth of John’s attention.

_Fast-forward._

Both men lay on the floor for far too long, facing each other, hands intertwined as they speak in hushed tones, speaking of fear and nightmares.

_Pause._

John is somehow closer than he’s ever been, and their crucial moment is soon. They are oblivious to it until it is upon them.

_Forward, frame by frame._

John’s hand on Sherlock’s cheek. It smells of honey and home. It is cold and clammy. Sherlock knows this to be a byproduct of fear, and his are much the same.  Sherlock nuzzles into the contact, his lips brush against John’s wrist.

_Pause._

This exact moment in time, caught between heartbeats on the floor of 221 B, Sherlock stakes his claim with a simple kiss burdened with his hope. The beat of John’s heart is steady against his mouth, and he is not pulling away.

They are frozen in time. Everything that needed saying, said. Everything they could ever want to do, to share, still to come. Sherlock thinks if he could stay on this precipice forever, he could be happy. The anticipation of things to come would sustain him for centuries. The fear of rejection caught in Sherlock’s throat is foolish; everything he reads in John’s posture, voice, and demeanor tells him John wants this as much as he does.

He lies on the floor, long dry from the rain, bruises forming around his eye and chest and his lips against John’s pulse point as John caresses his cheek.  The sun set long ago, but neither bothers turning on a lamp as it gets darker and darker and darker. A streetlamp shines weakly through the window; Sherlock’s eyes have adjusted to the dimness and thinks that he’s never seen John look so at peace. A life time ago, Sherlock would have dismissed this as boring, trivial.

_Play._

He kisses John’s wrist again, deliberately. John’s fingers curl towards Sherlock’s ear and their pulses creep up in tandem. In the dim, Sherlock watches as John’s tongue sweeps across his bottom lip; he mimics the action, his tongue briefly tasting the flesh of John’s wrist and eliciting a nearly silent gasp of shock. John’s hand slowly moves into Sherlock’s hair, every follicle singing or the attention. John’s breath is soft on Sherlock’s cheek. They are very nearly chest to chest now; there’s a soft pressure on the back of Sherlock’s head, gently guiding him closer.

Their feet and knees are touching. When did that happen? John’s hand is a steady pressure on Sherlock’s head, and Sherlock is reaching towards the hem of John’s ugly sweater. He almost wishes he was still gently kissing the soft skin of John’s wrist, counting the beats until they can’t go back. His anticipation is higher than ever, and the fear has transformed into pure nerves. The street light glows orange, and the skull on the mantle smiles as it always has.

_Play._

His hand latches onto the prize of John’s waist, spurring them both into action, as if it was the only cue they were waiting for. Their noses bump and their teeth clink painfully in their eager kiss. John’s breath is let out in an endearing giggle and Sherlock drinks it in, the vibration of John’s laughter transferring from lip to lip like small, electric shocks. Sherlock pulls John closer as John fists Sherlock’s wild curls; they let themselves finally have what they thought they could never have.

Sherlock catches John’s bottom lip between his and sucks it carefully into his mouth, his tongue tracing gently along the ridge. John sighs softly at the contact. A car drives by outside their flat; the bass music thumps loudly and obnoxiously, and the tyres squeal painfully as the driver turns a sharp corner at the end of the street, pulling them out of their shared reverie. John groans and nuzzles into the crook between Sherlock’s shoulder and throat.  Sherlock trembles as John’s lips move against his collar bone. A low whisper makes the trip up his neck and into his ear, asking him to come to bed.

_Pause._

_There are so many moments that could be pinpointed as **the moment**. Was it the moment he defeated the last man standing? Was it when he knocked on the door, or when John let him inside? Was it John’s question, “What the hell is wrong with you?” that opened these floodgates? Or was it later than that, some turn of phrase one of them may have used and stored away for later contemplation? Sherlock is inclined to say it was the moment the first punch was thrown, which led them to the floor, which lead them to their brief meeting of lips ruined by a careless driver. Would they have stayed on the floor forever if John hadn’t asked him to come to bed? He likes to think they would have.  _

_Fast-forward._

From the lounge room and down the hall lay a trail of an ugly jumper, an equally ugly plaid shirt, a fine cotton shirt in black missing several mother-of-pearl buttons, two pairs of shoes, leading to a lone sock sitting in the doorway of Sherlock’s old bedroom – John’s room now, as Sherlock suspected.

Sherlock is on top of John, sprawled diagonally across the bed, their shins hanging awkwardly off the edge of the bed as they grapple for dominance.

“You don’t know how long I waited for this,” Sherlock pants into John’s ear, pressing their hips together, enjoying the intense heat rolling off of his bedmate. 

“You don’t get to say that, Sherlock, because I thought I’d never get to have this. Don’t you dare tell me how long _you’ve_ waited.” John’s words are angry, but Sherlock knows he’s forgiven as every other word is kissed along his face, his neck.  
  
Sherlock brings a hand between them and trails his fingers down John's torso, pausing to play with the soft, downy hair below his bellybutton. He toys with the button of John’s jeans, but John reaches down and attempts to undo himself for Sherlock.

“Your hands are shaking. Just let me…” John fumbles far worse than Sherlock would have.

 _Sherlock is losing control over his thoughts; they are not so easily manipulated with commands of fast-forward, pause, play. The intensity of these memories flash at him, poorly lit images full of texture and sound and flavor, but however out of his control, he does not want to stop._  
  
Sherlock has moved down the bed and holds John in his hand, inspecting every inch of flesh. There is a freckle beside the eye, and another on the heart of a prominent vein, the one in which Sherlock can feel John's heartbeat. His own heart beating in time with each involuntary pulse.

Pubic hair tickles Sherlock’s nose as he nuzzles into the junction of John’s thigh; he delicately caresses John’s scrotum with his lips, his tongue. The flesh tightens minutely against Sherlock’s mouth, causing him to gasp and try it again. John is moaning helplessly, grabbing hard at Sherlock’s hair and repeating his name with every other fought-for breath. Sherlock feels the heavy weight between his own legs, leaking pre-ejaculate as he thrusts against John’s leg more aggressively than intended. His fist moves steadily, constantly on John’s shaft as he lovingly kisses the freckles, his mouth watering with want.

_Flash._

Sherlock’s arm is desperately trying to keep John from bucking into his mouth again. His jaw is getting sore quickly, but John is at his mercy and there’s never been a sweeter sound than John gasping and moaning curses and Sherlock’s name. John’s hand is heavy and tangled in Sherlock’s hair, and his hips are still eagerly lifting off the bed despite Sherlock’s best effort- always a fight to the last.

_Flash._

John is on top of Sherlock now, tenderly kissing his neck. Sherlock’s hand wrapped around their pricks, moving slowly as they thrust against each other. His good doctor, his best friend, the love of his fucking life whispers in his ear all the things he never knew he needed to hear, swearing he’ll stand by those words forever. Sherlock will never look at John again without this moment overwhelming his mind, and he makes this a promise to himself. Even when John’s being boring or dull, those are just temporary relapses- he will never stop being interesting. John Watson will haunt him till the end of his days—

_Flash._

Sherlock is curled around behind John. He’s dripping copiously as he nudges his cock between John’s closed thighs; his head presses against the seam of John’s perineum, glides underneath John’s bollocks and feels John shudder as he makes contact with the underside of his shaft. Sherlock pulls back and thrusts into the soft flesh of John’s thighs over and over again as John trembles and twists his head to kiss any part of Sherlock he can reach. Sherlock drapes his arm across John’s chest; his hand is grasped and brought to John’s mouth, his thumb getting nibbled and sucked on. He can almost feel a phantom of John’s lips on his cock. John grips himself with his free hand, welcoming Sherlock’s intrusion time and time again.  Sherlock buries his head into the crook of John’s neck, and his rumbling moans echo through the room; softer sighs mumbled from around a thumb answer back.

_Flash._

It feels like they’ve been doing this forever, but Sherlock is far from bored and wonders if he’ll ever be bored again. He is making notes of John’s reactions and how they inspire his own elucidation, egging each other on until he’s sure he might just die.

He feels John tensing, the tendons in his thighs tightening around his cock, his testicles tightening and lifting, his hand moving faster and faster in time with Sherlock’s increasingly desperate thrusts. John begs quietly, “Please, please Sherlock,” and Sherlock bites the flesh of John’s shoulder in response—it is enough. John stiffens completely, jerking in spasms as he coats his hand with his release, the sensation of John’s cock pulsating against his own is enough to end Sherlock as well.

_Sherlock tightens his arm around John and breathes deeply. He is still caught between John’s thighs; sweat cools on his brow; his lips tingle, and he is utterly spent. Though they finished only moments ago, Sherlock cannot help but document, highlight, rewind, pause, fast-forward, and relive every moment. He smiles and finally relaxes when John tells him to stop thinking so loudly. Yes, he’s definitely home._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is my first attempt at writing explicit anything. I've been told that I decided to do it the hard way, and I'm inclined to believe that opinion. 
> 
> Thank you to Megg33k for your input, this fic wouldn't be what it is without your help.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are not mine- just having a play.


End file.
